


We Fly Like Birds of a Feather

by threewalls



Category: Persona 3
Genre: Breakfast, Families of Choice, Fluff, Harems, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-04
Updated: 2009-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the Kirijo mansion, the servants have the day off on Sundays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Fly Like Birds of a Feather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



Mitsuru wakes up alone in their bedding, pushing hair from her eyes to check the clock on the far wall. Someone had not woken her when he went for his morning run. Someone had not woken her when the alarm clock had rung, or perhaps turned it off last night without her noticing-- or, mm, had distracted her from setting it at all. Mitsuru shuts her eyes and rolls her shoulders forwards once and then backwards, and hums.

She folds aside the quilt and pads naked from the puzzle of interlocking futons to the tatami floor. Few rooms in the house are this traditional in furnishing, but her research turned up less than suitable Western alternatives. Her ivory silk dressing gown is folded in a basket, above her slippers and her hairbrush. She fastens the gown loosely under her breasts.

From the hall, she can hear Iori and Takeba shouting, but not to each other, at least not as part of in any ordered conversation. The kitchen is ordered chaos. Mitsuru herself does not cook, but her staff have an expansive kitchen and food preparation area, cupboards and appliances, windows and workspaces arranged in balance of aesthetics and function.

Iori is frying eggs, or rather, to hear his colourful commentary on his own progress, scrambling them, while Shinjiro is pouring batter into a crepe-pan with intricate flourishes. They have an eight burner hob countertop between them, but they knock into each other, bumping hips and elbows, Shinjiro staring down Iori as they balance piled-upon plates.

Aigis has a wooden chopping board and a cleaver. She takes the plates from the men, forming small heaps of finely sliced pink salt salmon, yellow pickle and black nori in the spare margins of the china. Beside her at the work-table, Akihiko is dropping a small mountain of vegetables, chopped into evenly sized pieces, and the odd equally-sized piece of fruit into an automatic juicer.

As he returns from setting another plate by Aigis, Shinjiro slaps Akihiko's arse, smirking when Akihiko punches his shoulder. Though it's February, Akihiko's dressed in a T-shirt and running shorts, too short to completely cover the marks that stretch down to his mid-thighs. Everyone else wears house clothes, robes, T-shirts and flannels.

Chidori is wearing a generous fleece jumpsuit in the design of a kangaroo, complete with its own joey rising over her growing bump. She pauses in sketching to rip a piece from a croissant, dipping it into her glass of vegetable juice, before popping the piece in her mouth. Mitsuru cannot see anyone else, Akihiko excepted, with a glass beside them.

Yamagishi has the rice cooker, unplugged and open to its circuitry, and a set of pink-handled screwdrivers, while Moriyama is slicing croissants in half, layering them with butter and jam. The colour of Moriyama's halter-neck matches Yamagishi's shorts, and vice versa. Moriyama waves her sticky fingers at Yamagishi, who leans over to lick them clean.

Takeba is standing closest to Mitsuru, but with her back to the doorway. She's fenced the electric kettle around with what might be every cup and mug in the kitchen.

"Who wanted coffee, decaf, black tea, green tea, mint tea, milk tea, strawberry-mango tea--?"

"I would like some green tea, thank you, Yukari."

"Mitsuru!"

"The rice cooker was broken, so I've been trying to fix it--"

"Hey, Mit-su-ru, how'd you like your eggs?"

"Shinjiro-san suggested that we could wrap salmon in pan-cakes--"

They surround Mitsuru, her family. Takeba passes Mitsuru a mug of steeping tea, her arm sliding along the back of Mitsuru's robe, holding on. Mitsuru slips her hand up beneath the hem of Takeba's flannel top.

"Tch. Why aren't any of you eating?"

They scatter for chopsticks and cutlery. Shinjiro slides a plate down the counter; it stops just before Mitsuru. In the pancake, there is the pattern of a kitten's face.


End file.
